High Stakes Read Online Free Page B

introduce “the title cut from the Kelly Brand Quintet’s great new CD ‘Afternoon in June.’” Doyle set about relishing two of his favorite things in life, great food and great music.
    ***
    Two mornings later, shortly before noon, Doyle waited for Ingrid at the entrance to the noisy, crowded Heartland Downs track kitchen. Salsa music blared from the sound system inside, causing conversational voices to be raised. Her red pickup truck sped into the nearby parking lot a minute later. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I’ve been up all night with a horse of Bud Bauder’s that was threatening to colic. Got him straightened out, though. Sorry I’m dirty, too,” she said as she slapped the dust off her jeans.
    â€œI see you’re limping a bit. What happened?”
    â€œA frisky colt kicked me in the knee yesterday. Still hurts.”
    Entering the large building with its rows of tables and lengthy aisle of cafeteria-style breakfast offerings. Doyle said, “I’m not really hungry. All I want is coffee. How about you?”
    â€œSame.”
    â€œOkay, let me grab a couple of containers and we can sit outside in relative peace and quiet.”
    They walked to one of the old wood picnic tables that sat beneath a huge weeping willow tree. The early morning sun had erased the dawn air’s haze and its light lay gently on the scarred surface of the table. Doyle said, “Thanks again for meeting me, Ingrid. You must know the reason why, right? Have you had a chance to ask around about a possible horse killer?”
    â€œAll business, as always. Right?” Ingrid sipped her coffee before continuing. “I’ve talked to everybody I know who I think might have an idea as to who’s responsible for these so-called mercy killings. The only name that ever comes up is that girlfriend, or I guess ex-girlfriend, of Pat Caldwell’s. You know, the guy who calls the charts here for Racing Daily ? Esther Ness.”
    Doyle waved hello at Steve Holland, a horse owner he knew who was headed for the track kitchen, Racing Daily in hand. “What do you know about Caldwell?” he asked Ingrid. “I know what he does here, but I’ve never met him.”
    â€œPretty friendly kind of guy. I’ve talked to him a couple of times at the monthly cookouts the track sponsors for all the backstretch people and racing office personnel. “She smiled. “That’s also where I first got to know Bobby Bork. Guy I’m going with now.”
    Doyle said, “How long has Caldwell been calling the charts here?”
    â€œOh, several years. He worked other tracks before getting this plum job. He’s a tall, skinny guy, must be six foot four or five. Always wears a coat and tie at work. People say he’s real easygoing when he’s not doing his job. At work, he’s all business. I once heard a woman horse owner ask him at one of the cookouts, ‘Mr. Caldwell, how do you ever manage to tell where every member of a twelve-horse field that’s speeding down the backstretch a quarter-mile away from you is at? How do you figure out who all those horses are in all that rushing? And where they are then?” Caldwell just smiled at her. He told her, “I’ve got a great memory for what horses look like, and the colors their jockeys wear. Besides, everybody’s gotta be someplace.”
    Their conversation was interrupted by the screech of pickup truck brakes on the nearby roadway. They heard a horn blast and a shouted oath from the halted tan truck.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Doyle said.
    Ingrid said, “That’s that crabby old trainer Sid Morris. He braked to avoid hitting a squirrel that was hopping across the road.”
    Doyle said, “Hopping? Don’t they run, the quick little creatures?”
    Ingrid smiled. “Take a good look some time. They run up trees. But squirrels don’t synchronize all four